


don't know you super well but you might be the same as me

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Stranger Sex, Strangers to Lovers, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:24:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: “Well,” Aziraphale looks around to make sure nobody’s listening. “You’re a demon. You must be up to something.”At this the stranger laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “And you’re an angel. Why aren’t you plucking a harp and singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’ or whatever it is you lot do?”Aziraphale shudders. He greatly dislikes The Sound of Music. “I fear you have a very skewed view of what angelic duties entail. And besides, the day is done and all I wanted was a drink. Which was very kind of you, by the way.”The stranger’s smile gets sharp, knifelike. “You’ve only just met me, angel. You know what I am. Surely you can’t be naive enough to assume I do things out of kindness.” There’s a silky edge of menace to his voice that makes Aziraphale’s breath catch.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 396





	don't know you super well but you might be the same as me

Aziraphale is rather fond of this particular hotel bar. The whisk(e)y selection is excellent and the clientele is the type that would much rather get drunk in their suites, so it tends to be sparsely populated. Sometimes, all one wants to do is nurse an excellent bit of scotch in silence, and this place allows him to do that. 

It’s hardly unusual to see other people in the bar, but most of them don’t wear sunglasses inside, or have a bottle of Talisker 18 next to them. Even that wouldn’t have made Aziraphale take much notice, except for the way something pings in the back of his head when he takes another look. The male-presenting figure sitting at the counter is not human. Aziraphale has not seen another otherworldly being from either side in centuries, and when he did, none of them expressed interest in anything as mundane as liquor.

Aziraphale slides into a seat next to the stranger. There’s a small tattoo of a coiled snake on the side of his face, under artfully disheveled russet hair that falls past his collar. His head turns towards Aziraphale, registering his presence but not engaging. He takes a drink from his glass, and Aziraphale pretends he isn’t watching the line of his throat as he swallows.

The silence draws out. The stranger continues to drink. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “So. Are you here to bring a message or some such? Is it beginning?” 

The stranger looks at him, and even through the sunglasses Aziraphale senses a polite hostility. “Sorry, I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t play coy with me,” Aziraphale snaps. “I haven’t had a whiff of communication from my people for centuries, beyond the occasional reprimand about using miracles frivolously. And then you show up, after your side hasn’t made a peep. _Something _must be happening, and if you know what it is, I would very much like for you to tell me.”

This seems to amuse the stranger, who smirks and gets the attention of the bartender. In a short while a squat glass with two fingers of amber liquid appears in front of Aziraphale. He takes a sip, letting the taste of the whisky burn pleasantly down his tongue and throat. It’s marvelous, and despite himself he feels a bit more charitable. 

“What makes you think anything is going on? And even if it is, why would I have anything to do with it?” The stranger grins, like he’s enjoying keeping Aziraphale on his toes. 

“Well,” Aziraphale looks around to make sure nobody’s listening. “You’re a demon. You must be up to something.”

At this the stranger laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “And you’re an angel. Why aren’t you plucking a harp and singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’ or whatever it is you lot do?”

Aziraphale shudders. He greatly dislikes The Sound of Music. “I fear you have a very skewed view of what angelic duties entail. And besides, the day is done and all I wanted was a drink. Which was very kind of you, by the way.”

The stranger’s smile gets sharp, knifelike. “You’ve only just met me, angel. You know what I am. Surely you can’t be naive enough to assume I do things out of kindness.” There’s a silky edge of menace to his voice that makes Aziraphale’s breath catch. “Temptation is my trade, after all, and I’m very good at what I do.” 

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. “Do you go around announcing you’re going to tempt people as a matter of course, demon? That doesn’t seem like a particularly effective strategy.” A pause. “While we’re on the subject, what do I call you? It seems terribly rude to keep referring to you as ‘demon’.”

It’s difficult to make out any sort of expression behind the sunglasses, but he thinks the stranger might be amused. “Not that I’ve met many angels, but you are by far the strangest. Crowley.” He offers his hand, a very human gesture Aziraphale did not expect.

“Aziraphale.” They shake hands, and neither of them burst into flame or get plagued, Biblical or otherwise. They both hold on for a breath more than is polite, and pretend not to notice. Aziraphale takes a larger sip from his glass.

“I’m still curious, though. Why are you here?” 

“Can’t a demon nip out after a productive day of temptation and have a drink in peace?” 

"Of course they can. Whether it is a thing they choose to do is another. And you are the first I've seen exercise that option."

Crowley takes another drink. By now he's turned his chair towards Aziraphale, at least a little interested. “It’s a big old world. Bit silly to spend most of your time in Hell when there are so many more interesting things here.” 

“Exactly! Nobody Upstairs understands that either.” Aziraphale smiles, excited he might finally have someone to talk to about why none of his fellows understand the appeal of sushi, or symphonies, or cake. 

“Funny how much both Sides seem to have in common, isn’t it?” Crowley’s voice is light, casual, as if he was not committing shameless blasphemy. “Probably not for the same reasons, but it seems neither are interested in learning about the humans they’re supposed to tempt or bless.” 

“Indeed. How would you even begin to understand them without doing the things they do?” Aziraphale huffs, taking another drink. “To not experience hunger, drunkenness, the feeling of getting caught in the rain without an umbrella—” 

“Sleep—”

“The smell of old books—”

“Music. How could you even comprehend them without that?”

“Deep physical intimacy—” The words tumble out of Aziraphale’s mouth and then he realizes what they could also imply. He feels himself blushing. Crowley certainly is a handsome devil, but just because he’s a demon doesn’t mean he’s going to sleep with somebody he’s just met. It would be rude to presume. 

A slow smile curves over Crowley’s mouth. “I’m guessing you’re not talking about holding hands and trying to figure out if it’s a kiss on each cheek or two on both?” 

Aziraphale scoffs. “Why do you make it sound so tawdry? It’s a beautiful thing to share with another person. Sometimes multiple people.” 

“Mm.” He catches a small raise of Crowley’s eyebrow. “Does your Side know they have such a hedonist in their ranks?”

“If they asked the right questions I would tell them. But they don’t, because it never even occurs to them.” He smirks and takes another drink, savoring the feel of the whisky in his mouth. 

“You enjoy being a bit of a bastard don’t you, angel?” By now Crowley's sprawled out of his personal space, his foot resting next to Aziraphale’s on the chair. Something about the way he says "angel" this time does funny things to Aziraphale's insides. It doesn't sound like a description or insult, more like… a pet name. 

"And I think you enjoy doing things for people. You bought me a drink, after all. And you tipped the bartender far more than customary."

It's Crowley's turn to blush. Isn't that interesting. 

"How do you know I don't have an ulterior motive? Maybe I made an educated guess about what an agent of the Opposition that hangs around in posh hotel bars would drink." His voice is breezy, just a bit more than it would be if he weren't trying to fake his nonchalance.

"So you were trying to seduce me with fine alcohol. It's nice to be wanted, even by the enemy." He looks sidelong at Crowley in a way he hopes comes across as flirtatious.

"Who could resist, angel?" Aziraphale feels a foot brush against his calf, slow and deliberate. "You're fucking gorgeous."

Aziraphale uses his heel to catch Crowley’s ankle, pin it against the footrest. Crowley swallows hard, and Aziraphale allows himself a tiny, smug smile. 

“If you want to encourage my vanity in a slightly more private space, I won’t say no.” 

Crowley grins conspiratorially and produces a keycard. “What a remarkable coincidence. A suite previously reserved by a banking executive for his mistress just became available. Pity she’s going to call his wife and tell her all about what’s been going on. Would be a shame not to take advantage of this good fortune.” 

“Absolutely wasteful, I agree. Shall we, then?”

—

The suite is minimalist in the way only obscene amounts of money can make it, with a touch of mid-century modern for a semblance of culture. But Aziraphale is not here to evaluate the aesthetics, however terrible they may be.

Crowley sits down on the couch. He’s still wearing those sunglasses. 

Aziraphale sits down next to him. "Would you do something for me?"

"Maybe." 

"Could you take off your glasses? I want to see your eyes." 

Crowley hesitates, and for a moment Aziraphale fears he’s overstepped. But he removes the sunglasses, blinking a little as he adjusts to seeing without them. 

Aziraphale inhales. "Oh my. They're absolutely beautiful." They’re a bright rich gold, with narrow black pupils. He’s never seen such on a human-ish form, and they’re fascinating. 

“You don’t think they’re weird?” There’s a wariness to Crowley’s voice, like somebody shot him down for doing this before, and it makes Aziraphale want to do something incredibly rude to whatever being made him feel like this. 

“They aren’t normal, if that’s what you’re getting at. But they are extraordinary, my dear, and I’m glad you allowed me to see them.” 

The speed with which Crowley leans forward and presses his mouth to Aziraphale's is unexpected. The first kiss is a bit awkward, more enthusiasm than precision, but they figure it out. Crowley tastes like fine whisky: smoke and spice and an undercurrent of sweetness Aziraphale licks into his mouth trying to chase. Judging by the noise he makes in the back of his throat and the way Crowley's hands are fisted in the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, he likes that a great deal. 

Suddenly Aziraphale feels rather overdressed for this particular activity. "A minute, if you please." 

Crowley makes an impatient noise, but pulls back, watching. Aziraphale takes off his overcoat and drapes it over a chair, followed by his waistcoat. He undoes his bow tie and the first two buttons of his shirt. Crowley is drinking this in, and Aziraphale sees his breath catch at the glimpse of more skin. It is incredibly, ridiculously erotic, and he has to fuss with his bow tie to regain a measure of composure.

He sits back down. "Much better."

Crowley makes a noise against Aziraphale’s neck that he thinks might be agreement. He seems intent on nipping a string of bruises down his throat, and Aziraphale is happy to let him. By now he’s pushed Crowley’s coat off and unbuttoned his vest, moving just under Crowley’s shirt to settle hands at his hips. 

Crowley’s hands hover near his buttons. "May I?"

"Please," Aziraphale says, like he hasn't been eyeing those long, clever fingers since he sat down at the bar; wondering how they would feel in his hair, tangled against his own, or inside him.

Crowley undoes his shirt carefully, leaving the cuffs for last. As he folds the cloth away from Aziraphale's wrists he kisses them in a way Aziraphale can only describe as reverent. _What manner of demon are you, that has the capacity for not just affection, but worship?_ he wants to know. But that’s not something you can ask a being you've just met.

Aziraphale is divested of his shirt, and he thinks he should feel exposed but there is no vulnerability in it. Crowley is looking at him, soft and wondering. 

“You’re marvelous, angel. You know that?” 

It’s not that Aziraphale is ashamed or self-conscious about his corporation. It just _is_, and people’s opinions of it are mostly irrelevant, except at times like this. Certainly he’s had partners who have complimented it, appreciated it in mutually enjoyable ways; but he’s never had anybody look at him like Crowley is now: adoring, venerational.

"Perhaps we should move this to the bed?" Crowley prompts gently, but there’s something smouldering in his gaze.

"And get rid of the rest of our clothes? Yes."

They leave a trail of discarded garments in their wake, except for Crowley's jeans which Aziraphale has to help peel him out of. ("Did you require a demonic favor to get into these things?" "I'm not going to answer that." "So that's a yes then." Crowley does not respond.) But eventually their corporeal forms are divested of clothing, and Aziraphale looks his fill. 

Crowley has a strange, lanky grace about him, casually sprawled out on the ridiculously large bed. His hip bones are lovely, and Aziraphale wants to investigate them thoroughly and at some length. His hair fans loose about his face, bright and Titian, like some painting in a wealthy hedonist’s boudoir. He is gorgeous just like this, but something is missing.

“You don’t have to, but would you show me your wings?” 

There’s a rush of air, and Crowley is framed by a pair of black wings that take up the width of the bed. He is magnificent like this, and Aziraphale takes a breath, awestruck. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my considerable existence,” he says, and bends over Crowley so he can take that face into his hands and kiss it. 

Crowley pulls away for a second. 

“What is it, my dear?” Something flashes behind Crowley’s strange, lovely eyes at the endearment.

“Can I see yours? Your wings, I mean.” 

"Fair's fair. Of course." Aziraphale concentrates for a moment and manifests his wings into existence. They are, as they have always been, white and somewhat fluffy. 

Crowley just looks at him, dumbstruck. By what exactly he hasn't a clue, but before he can form the question, Crowley pulls Aziraphale on top of him, smoothing his hands up Aziraphale's back until he bumps up against the base of his wings. 

Aziraphale shivers. It's been such a long time since anybody touched his wings he forgot how it goes straight into his… soul is probably the most relatable equivalent. The part of him that is separate from the Host, but not from Her, as She is in all things. It is an intimate thing to touch another angel's wings: not really sexual because they have to Make An Effort to manifest all that equipment, but vulnerable in a way you wouldn't want someone you didn't trust doing.

It's not that he doesn't like Crowley touching his wings. It's intoxicating, making his head swim and his body press against all the parts of Crowley he can reach, and apparently the interest is returned. It's just. For angels at least, it is a forward thing to do with someone you've just met, like spilling your darkest secrets to a stranger or getting married in Las Vegas: there's a miniscule chance it'll be fine, but most times there are good reasons you don't.

Oh no. What if it's different in Hell, the way some hand gestures are innocuous in some countries and rude to the point of violence in others? For all Aziraphale knows wing touching for demons is as casual as shoving past someone on the Tube.

But there is nothing casual about the way Crowley moves his hands on Aziraphale's wings. He is experimental, intent on cataloguing reactions to particular types of touches, smiling when he pulls noises from Aziraphale's mouth unbidden. Aziraphale should be embarrassed at this, the way he's made needy and undignified, but it feels so good he can’t seem to get his sense of propriety to work.

"You clever, wicked devil," he gasps as Crowley runs a finger against the place where flesh and wing meet, sending bright sparks of pleasure through his brain and body. "I can't take much more of this, not if you want attention to your own, ah, concerns." 

And it seems he is very concerned, judging by the way his arousal has been pressed against Aziraphale this entire time. It has to be painful by now, but he's not made even a suggestion towards his own satisfaction.

"If that's what you'd like," Crowley says, attempting to be nonchalant about it but his voice is full of barely suppressed need. Oh, this will not do at all.

"It is, and it is also my pleasure to do so. You deserve yours too." Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley's length, giving it an experimental stroke. Crowley curses in a language that has been dead for millennia and pushes into Aziraphale's hand. His expression is delicious, and Aziraphale continues working him, watching the pleasure roll across his face.

"You're beautiful like this, darling; absolutely exquisite." He presses a brief kiss to Crowley's lips, more fond than he intended. It is one thing to consort with the enemy, so to speak, but quite another entirely to get feelings involved. But there is something about him that makes Aziraphale want to know more about this strange, not particularly demon-y demon. He wants to understand what it is about music Crowley is so fascinated by, why he sleeps. He wants to know why and how he decided Talisker is his whisky of choice, what he thinks of wine and rich desserts. 

In the back of his head, there is a worrisome little voice that insists this could be all an elaborate trick, a way to lower his guard and get him compromised, captured maybe. Or even to make him Fall. 

Aziraphale is an angel, which means he can see into minds and hearts. It’s not something he does as a matter of course, because that is a gross violation of others’ privacy. (And to be honest, so few people are interesting enough to make it worth the effort.) He does it when it’s required, or when someone invites him to do so. 

Crowley’s thoughts are plain as day, for somebody who knows how to look. There is lust, of course, but also the wonder of something new, exciting, and delightful. Beneath that, the feeling of holding your breath and willing a spark to turn into flame. It’s too much, especially from someone who is basically a stranger. 

It's not like he's proud of what he does next. It's not exactly a temptation, more like a distraction, but it skates close enough it makes Aziraphale a little nervous. He pauses his hand, enjoying the noise Crowley makes at the loss. 

“I’d like to take you into my mouth, get a good taste, if that’s something you’re amenable to? You’ve been so patient, my dear, and that deserves to be rewarded.” 

Crowley looks like he can't believe this is a question being posed to him in his current state, but also a bit pleased to be consulted regardless. "Whatever you want to do, just don't stop."

Aziraphale finally gets a hold of those gorgeous hip bones, enjoying the feel of them under his palms. He thinks about teasing Crowley a little bit: letting a flicker of hot breath pass against his cock, licking against him root to tip. But a glance up at his face, willing to wait but hoping he won't have to, makes Aziraphale change his mind.

He takes Crowley in about halfway. A sharp gasp from above makes him smile, and he presses his tongue against the underside, dragging up to the tip. 

"Angel," Crowley breathes. "_Fuck_." There is something about his tone that takes the profanity out of the oath. He places a hand on Aziraphale's head very gently, threading fingers into his hair. It is terribly, unexpectedly tender, and Aziraphale does not understand. Nothing about Crowley he's observed so far resembles what he's been told Upstairs, or his few encounters with other demons.

So he brings the focus back to something he can grasp: pleasure and the giving of such. He takes Crowley all the way into his mouth, enjoying the noise he makes. His hand is out of Aziraphale's hair now, clutching the sheet. 

It's Aziraphale's turn to be experimental, observing what makes Crowley moan and shudder. He strokes the curve of a hip with a thumb; and can feel the tremble in Crowley, the effort it must be taking him to not thrust up into Aziraphale's mouth; and another wave of fondness threatens to overwhelm. 

He pulls off with a lewd, showy pop, looking up. Crowley shifts under him, but doesn’t protest at the loss of Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“I can continue, or I could fuck you, with my fingers or my cock.” 

Crowley makes a delicious, hungry noise that goes straight to Aziraphale’s cock, and he has to take a breath. 

“How do you want me?” Crowley asks. He’s so biddable, eager to please, and Aziraphale adores that. 

“Hands and knees, if you please. As much as I’d love to see your gorgeous face, I want access to your wings.” 

Crowley scrambles up, getting in position as requested. He gives Aziraphale a look over his shoulder, and tosses his hair flirtatiously. Aziraphale chuckles and palms the curve of his ass, giving it a squeeze. He slips a finger between Crowley’s cheeks and is rather surprised to find him wet and open. 

“Do your superiors know you’re this profligate with your abilities?” He says, half-teasing but also impressed. Clever. He wouldn’t have thought to do that.

Crowley hides his head in the crook of an arm. “I didn’t want to wait,” he says, a little bit sheepishly. 

“And so you won’t, dear boy.” Aziraphale places a kiss at the curve of his back, lining himself up. 

He’s surrounded by slick, exquisite heat, overwhelming enough he stops his slide in for a moment. “How is that?” he inquires to cover the pause.

“I’m all right,” Crowley pants. “God, you feel so fucking good, angel.” 

Aziraphale pushes in further, stopping right before he’s in all the way. He thrusts tentatively, feeling Crowley scrabble for a handhold as he moans. He fucks in as deep as he’s able, and Crowley cants his hips up to meet him. He drapes himself over Crowley’s back, mouthing a sloppy kiss right behind his ear. 

“You lovely greedy thing. So eager, so wanting. I couldn’t deny you even if I wished, the way you look taking it from me.” 

“And how do I look?” Crowley asks, stringing words together with great effort.

"Wanton. Ravished. On the way to being well-fucked." He’s gloriously debauched, a sheen of sweat across his face, his mouth open as he gulps for breath. 

He presses his tongue to Crowley’s shoulder blade, at the junction where body and wing meet. It gratifies him to feel it affects Crowley’s body as much as his, the way Crowley cries out. Aziraphale digs his fingers into the feather and muscle of Crowley's wing and Crowley arches beneath him, clenching even tighter than he thought possible. He presses his forehead between Crowley’s shoulders, almost overcome.

“Don’t stop, angel, don’t you _dare _stop.” There’s no demand in the request, only a beseeching, desperate plea.

“How could I, when you beg so prettily?” He hauls Crowley up, rearranging him until he’s in Aziraphale’s lap, back against his chest. 

“Fuck,” Crowley breathes, a little surprised but not displeased to be handled so easily. 

Aziraphale plunges his fingers into Crowley’s wings, getting them past the first few layers and into the down. There are no words anymore, just harsh gasping and Crowley grinding down on Aziraphale’s cock like he wants to be split open. He no longer cares what demons are supposed to do or be like, not the way Crowley is writhing on and in front of him. A being this magnificent and exquisite should be protected, cherished, treasured; damn what God, Satan, or anybody else thinks. 

“Could you come like this, darling?” He says into Crowley’s ear. “You don’t have to speak; just nod or shake your head.” 

Crowley nods frantically and Aziraphale smiles, pressing a kiss to his nape. “I’m delighted to know that; thank you. Let me take care of you, sweet boy.” 

He moves his hands, carding through the soft down to the sensitive skin underneath. Crowley bears down on him and he ruts up in response, now also breathing rough. He grips at the flesh of the wings below his fingers, probably hard enough to hurt but Crowley doesn’t object. 

“_God,_ angel, please, _please._” He repeats it like a prayer, fervent and ecstatic until it rolls into a sound between a full-throated cry and a sob. He shakes apart on Aziraphale’s cock, and it’s all Aziraphale can do to hold on while his own release is drawn out by Crowley’s orgasm. 

When Aziraphale comes to, he finds himself laying against Crowley’s back, cheek to spine. He helps Crowley off his lap, lays him down away from the wet spots before he also stretches out. There will be aches later, but he’s not sure how much he’ll want to miracle them away. 

“Well, fuck.” It’s not like he planned to say anything that witty, but it seems appropriate for the level of brain function he’s capable of at the moment. 

“Yeah, we did.” Crowley’s voice is teasing, but in a gentle way that invites him into the joke. 

He moves towards Aziraphale, like he wants to be close still. _A demon that cuddles. Now I have seen everything. _

He places an arm across Crowley’s torso, and Crowley turns towards him, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest. It is unexpected, but not unpleasant. He’s not sure why it feels like the thing to do, but he puts his wing over the demon, letting it rest gently against him. 

— 

He must have fallen asleep at some point. A glance out the window shows it remains dark. Crowley is still slumbering, his hair spread across the pillow. The depth of tenderness in his chest feels like it will swamp him. He wonders if he could get away with hiding Crowley, keeping him in a pocket dimension or somehow mask his otherworldliness. Neither side would bat an eye if he entered into such an arrangement with a human (and he has, on rare occasion), but this is unheard of. Aziraphale thinks he might fight for a chance to try.

Crowley shifts and opens his eyes, smiling when he sees Aziraphale. It’s a sleepy, unguarded smile, and something in his chest flips at seeing it. This must be what humans refer to as the heart skipping a beat. 

“Hello,” he says softly.

“Hi,” Crowley replies. 

Aziraphale’s stomach rumbles, and Crowley’s eyes crinkle in amusement. 

“Worked up an appetite, did you?” His stomach responds in kind. “All right, I suppose that’s fair. Hand me the room service menu, would you?” 

They order a ridiculous amount of food and wine. As impeccable as the service is here, there’s no way to rush cooking without superfluous miracles. And so they find other ways to occupy their time, until Aziraphale breaks off from sucking a bruise into Crowley’s inner thigh, suddenly remembering.

“Oi!” Crowley nudges him.

“But our food!” 

Crowley frowns for a moment. “I told them to leave it outside the door. And if the food knows what’s good for it, it’ll stay the perfect temperature until we’re well and bloody ready.” 

“I think I might adore you.” 

Crowley flushes pink, but he’s smiling. “Then show me. Get on with it, angel.” 

They spend another day in the room, taking advantage of their lack of refractory periods and ability to change Efforts at will. They fuck on every surface (and some they shouldn’t be able to) and in every configuration they can conceive. Crowley feeds Aziraphale sliced strawberries in clotted cream and licks the taste of it out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale sucks rich sweet Madeira off Crowley’s fingers, and can’t remember when it tasted so good. 

Eventually and unsurprisingly, they fall asleep again. This time, it’s Crowley’s turn to watch Aziraphale wake up. The room is light, the sun streaming through the windows.

“Good morning, angel.” 

“Good morning, darling.” 

Crowley snuggles back down at Aziraphale’s side, and they spend a bit having a lie-in.

“Dearest, I was thinking.” Aziraphale’s voice cuts through the lazy quiet.

“Yeah?” 

“We should try and make a go of it. Move in together. Get a fish or whatever humans do when they don’t have children.”

Crowley opens his eyes wide. “Isn’t that a bit fast?” His tone is innocent, but there’s a hint of amusement underneath. 

“I’ve made my decision, and I intend to stick to it.” Aziraphale says, almost primly but for the little smile tugging at his mouth.

“Then we should probably get going,” Crowley replies.

They’re arm in arm when the front desk attendant spots them and grins.

“Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley. I trust you had a wonderful experience?” 

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s arm and positively beams. “Indeed, my dear. We always do.”


End file.
